


Chase You Down Until You Love Me

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [57]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Language, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 12:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: everyday a struggle.  Lancelot and his early days at the police academy.  Set close toThree Days.





	Chase You Down Until You Love Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written April 2010, new edit June 2018.
> 
> I've been interested in this time period in their lives lately. Forgive the overlap. 
> 
> Title courtesy of Lady Gaga.

Sometimes when Lance got out of the car, there were photographers waiting. Sometimes it was just him and the car and the trees and the academy campus, and sometimes it was photographers and news people and other students that watched and whispered as he shoved his way through the flashing lights and yelled questions.  He wondered when they’d grow bored of it. He was. He knew the other students probably didn’t like having their privacy destroyed and was surprised that a few of them still spoke to him, despite it. 

That morning, the weather was California perfect, sun out, breeze caressing his face, flowers in full bloom. Lancelot parked Arthur’s Toyota in an innocuous spot in the lot, between a blue van and a black beat up Mini, slipped his sunglasses over his eyes and locked the door.  He stopped at the sidewalk, the familiar whiff of the birch trees wafting to his nostrils, and he leaned a hand on the trunk of one as he canted his eyes at the door to the main building. No cameras in sight, and no reporters. He breathed, the tightness that was always in his chest loosening, and looked at the tree again.  Strange – he still couldn’t figure out exactly where the smell came from. It wasn’t the trunk, and when he picked up a leaf from the ground and brought it to his nose, it didn’t really have the same odor that seemed to permeate the area around the tree. He shrugged; pulling out his wallet, he slid the leaf carefully between two twenties and put it back in his pocket.  
  
Shouldering his bag, he ambled to the big building that housed the auditoriums for lectures and the underground shooting range. He’d brought his weapons with him, and was almost salivating at the chance to use them after classes; he wasn’t sure about his draw and wanted one of his classmates to see if he was picking up any speed or not.

“Mr. Benoit!  Lance!  Are you still actively going to class? Are you still going to go through with this training to be a policeman?”

They shouted more questions, but the popping of light in his face and the yelled words blurred and blended until Lance couldn’t understand anything the photographers said. He ducked his head and almost smashed into the door in his haste to get away from the frenzy of news people, the heavy glass thing hard to open. He finally squeezed inside, his breath harsh, his sunglasses askew and his bag sliding off his shoulder. He leaned against the glass and ignored the muffled shouts, staying still until someone beat on the door. He turned warily but it was another student, and Lance opened the door quickly, apologizing as he let go of the handle and hurried away toward the closest bathroom.

Most classes were starting, so the bathroom emptied out quickly, Lance passing a few men as he entered. One of them looked at him askance but he kept going, pushing into a stall and locking it, letting his bag drop as he rested his hands on the metal door, the fingers trembling. He leaned his forehead between his hands, the cool of the door shocking to the sweat on his skin. He could feel it dripping down his back and gathering under his armpits, his clothing too hot. 

The AC in the bathroom kicked on and he shivered, the thickness in his throat burning and uncomfortable as he swallowed. He dropped his hands, the fingers brushing his pockets, feeling the lump of his phone there. Arthur. He’d call Arthur, and Arthur would come up here and pick him up and they could leave and go get – ice cream or coffee and he wouldn’t have to go to class or face the eyes of the people he went to school with and wonder what they were thinking or if they judged him or hated him or wanted him gone.

No.

He wouldn’t call Arthur. He would go out there, wash his hands, go to fucking class, and go home. Then he would collapse if he chose to, and then he’d have a drink or five, and then he’d punch the bag that hung in Arthur’s laundry room until his knuckles bled. 

He picked up his bag and unlocked the door, shuffled to the sink and washed his hands. His heart beat had slowed, the panicked rhythm of a few moments ago fading as he began to breathe more comfortably. He reached for a towel and dried his hands, the ring he wore on his left one twirling with his motions.  Tossing the towel away, he risked a glance in the mirror – he laughed. No one here to lie to – he shoved a hand through his hair and fixed a few of the curls. His hands still shook so he played with his appearance until it ceased. Mostly.

The skin under his eyes looked bruised and his face was white and blotchy looking. His hair was too long by far, but he hadn’t had the chance to get it cut recently (apart from the fact he didn’t know if his normal stylist was interested in seeing him anymore). The curls wrapped around his ears and wound at the nape of his neck, brushing over the collar of his blue polo shirt.  He wanted to like the simplicity of wearing a uniform every day; he thought he did, as it was probably for the best that he looked like all the others. He fingered the droopy collar of the shirt and looked down at his jeans, the sweats he wore for workouts in his bag with another shirt and his guns. His tennis shoes were new; Saucony’s Arthur had picked up for him the last time the other man had gone shopping. Lancelot had been sick at the time – he rubbed at his eyebrow, the scar he’d caused faint but noticeable.

His hands resumed their shaking. Damn it. He just wanted to go to class and learn to be a cop and live the life Arthur wanted him –

Gripping the sides of the sink, Lance bit his lip until the pain kept him from crying.

*  
  
The other cadet nodded, although Lance couldn’t really hear what he was saying through his ear protectors. Lifting one side, he cocked his head.

“I said, you’re definitely doing better than last time,” the guy repeated himself. “Don’t worry about it. You’re getting there, man.” He gave Lance the thumbs up and wandered on down the row, waiting for a cubicle to open up. Turning back to the man shaped target, Lance fired quickly, his hands a blur, the guns heating as he used up the ammo in the clip rapidly.  He could feel his phone vibrate in the pocket of his sweats, but he kept shooting, his right eye squinted as he stared the target down, the white paper and black outline shimmering as it moved slightly from the violence of the shots.

*

The bo staff was light; perfectly balanced as he hefted it between two hands, the wood smelling fresh and deceptively sweet. Lance twirled it experimentally, watching the ends of the thing as it spun round and round –

“OW.”

To his credit, he didn’t drop it. Rubbing his sore nose, Lance stepped up the mirror and swung the staff from hand to hand as he’d seen that officer that worked with Arthur do. Back and forth, left and right, the wood thunking as he caught it. His pocket vibrated again, but his hands were full and he was managing this quite well. So well he was able to execute a small flip and still hang on to the staff.  He began to move faster, his body warming, his hands enjoying the feel of the staff, his tank top and sweats dark and showing off the shape of his arms and legs. He didn’t notice people had stopped to watch him until he caught sight of the staring faces in the mirror.

This time he did drop the bo, his foot catching the edge of it, the wood rolling as he danced shakily around it, unintentionally, trying to avoid the fall that would come –

The floor was hard on his ass. He shoved to his feet quickly as his phone beeped at him. Cursing, he dragged it out and flipped the case open.

_Four missed calls_

Two were Guinevere. Those he deleted immediately. The other two…

He pressed one number for speed dial and lifted the mobile to his ear, panting as he put the bo staff away, crossing the large room as a few other cadets entered and picked up various weapons. He plunked down on a bench and waited.

_Where are you?_

“School,” he sighed, running fingers through his hair. “Where are you?”

_Home. I hadn’t heard from you for a while, and was just making sure you were alright._

“I’ve been in class and at the range, Arthur. You know my schedule.”

Silence. Then, _Have you talked to your sister?_

“She’s left me a few messages. Why? Is she okay?” Lance stood up, shouldering his bag as he pushed past the few people coming in the training room, one of them touching his shoulder and giving him a thumbs up motion. He smiled quickly and nodded as he exited, his stomach in knots. What the fuck did Gwen want, and was she –

_She’s fine. You haven’t spoken to her then?_

“No, Arthur,” Lance bit off. His scalp itched; sweat slowly trickled down his back and he forgot to look out the main door before he opened it – no paparazzi. Thank God. “You want me to hang up and call her?” He shoved his sunglasses back on his face even though it was relatively dark and quiet outside. He walked by the birch tree he’d smelled earlier and ignored it, forgot about the leaf in his pocket, forgot about his success (relatively mild success, but still) with the staff and his guns, forgot he was supposed to be doing this because _he_ wanted to, wanted it. Wanted a new life and a place away from the other Benoit’s, an identity and a home to call his – and to be okay with.

_Not unless you want to._

“Arthur, look,” Lance said, fishing the keys out of his bag and opening the Toyota, “either tell me what this is about or I am going to hang up.” He dropped into the seat with an annoyed grunt, flinging his book bag to the backseat. “I am not in the mood for word games.” He bit his lip as he started the car, praying Arthur would stop being so damn cryptic and spit it out. The other man was dancing around whatever it was he wanted to say, and that never ended well for Lance. Especially if it involved Guinevere.  He realized he sounded like an asshole, but after the start to the day (multiple days, really, and was he sure he could do this?), he just wanted Arthur to get to the damn point.  His neck began to tense up, and he reached a hand to his shoulder, trying to rub it and keep the phone from falling to the floor as he began to back the car up.

_You were on the news again._

Ah. Lancelot put his foot on the brake even as he was pulling out of his parking spot; he let the car sit where it was and lowered his right hand to his lap, his phone cradled between ear and shoulder. “Yeah. They were here when I went to class today.” Pain ate at his stomach, his head throbbing, the sunglasses he wore pinching his temples. The sweat was drying on his body and the hair on his arms stood up, the ac in the car too high. He didn’t turn it down.

_You alright?_

Lance lifted his hand and removed the sunglasses, setting them gently on the seat next to him. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose; the sun was gone and he was sitting halfway out of a parking space at the Los Angeles Police Academy and he was tired and heartsick and what the fuck was he doing?

He was doing what Arthur had envisioned for him, as long as he’d known Arthur. He was being something he wasn’t, someone he didn’t know, someone he had no idea how to be. And that hurt his chest and squeezed his brain and made him clench his teeth.

“Arthur. Let me call Guinevere. I’ll be home soon.”

_Lance, just come -_

He closed the mobile and pulled back into the space as people were beginning to show up for night classes, and he’d been honked at twice. Staring at the phone, Lance bypassed checking the messages and just dialed.

*

It was late and Lance was bone tired as he trudged up the steps of Arthur’s loft. His hands were full of bags from The Bean and his shoulders were bent and his neck still hurt from carrying his bag in a weird way. He managed to get the door unlocked without spilling anything – a miracle in and of itself – and shut it with his foot, sure Arthur would be there to help him immediately.  The loft was dark and quiet, and he sighed softly as he leaned against the door, dropping his school bag with a clunk to the ground. He could hear the clock from the kitchen ticking away and figured Arthur was asleep – otherwise surely the other man would be there to help him, to greet him, to help him deal with the conversation he’d had with Guinevere, to caress and love away his pain.

Moving to the kitchen he set the coffee supplies down, the two lattes he’d bought almost cold as he put them on the counter. Picking his drink back up when his hand was free, he took a sip of lukewarm espresso and stared out over the bar into the empty living room. The blinds were drawn, the stereo and tv shut down, Arthur’s computer turned off. The Van Gogh night light was plugged in as it always was, but that was it.  He waited for footfalls on the stairs, for arms to go around him, for full lips to kiss his neck, for strong hands to touch his shoulders and belly and for a large, warm body to remind him why he was doing what he was. It wasn’t for him, wasn’t by choice. No, he was doing this for Arthur, and for Arthur’s ideals. He knew Arthur knew that, as awful as it made him feel, and Lance sipped his fancy coffee drink and listened to the clock and waited.

After about thirty minutes, when he really had to pee and his feet were screaming with the pain of having stood up for so long all day, he set the rest of his coffee down and put Arthur’s in the fridge, covering the opening with saran so the other man could still drink it in the morning. He must be dead asleep for him to not hear Lance or for him to not come downstairs.  Lance snapped off the kitchen light and he slumped up the stairs, his mind whirling and his hands aching to hold Arthur. He sniffed and rubbed at his forehead, the scar that sliced through his eyebrow thick and new under his fingers. Why was he doing this? Why was he putting up with paparazzi and this life that forced him to do things he’d never thought about, never even considered, hated, actually, as his father had taught him to? Why wasn’t he sitting with Gwen at dinner in an expensive restaurant, several drinks already under his belt? Why wasn’t he sitting in the large office his father had left him, his body clad in expensive Italian fabric, his brain coated with dust and drugs? His cock in some nameless girl, his lips twisted as he fought not to say –

“Arthur.”

The other man was asleep. Lance leaned against the doorway, the bedroom silent and soft, the feel of it – he crossed to the bed, and sat heavily. He smelled bad and he felt bad and here was the reason. Here was the reason he wasn’t at that dinner with Guinevere, here was the reason he fought off paparazzi several days a week, here was the reason he was learning to shoot _for real_ and to defend himself and to do what good men did. Here was the reason he was suffering so mightily and hated himself so much.

He reached out and touched Arthur’s bare foot, which had worked its way out from under the covers. The other man had on old sweats and was bare chested, his dark hair wild and tossed from the twisting he did while sleeping. He breathed with his mouth slightly open, the dark circles under his eyes standing out in stark contrast to the pale skin of his face. Lance wondered how long it had been since they’d been to the beach; Arthur needed a tan.  Arthur needed a damn _break_. He was the good one, he was the one that did his job and lived his life because he wanted to, because he knew it was the right thing and the right way to be.

Arthur turned a bit and sighed, his eyelids flickering. Lance halted his petting of Arthur’s foot, but the other man did not wake, his arm flung up near his head as he moved his lips once in slumber. Lance’s throat grew thick and his face felt tight and hot, the skin flushing as he watched his lover and best friend sleep in relative ease for once.

Here was his reason.

That was enough.

He got up off the bed, brushed his teeth, shucked his clothing off down to his briefs and slipped into the bed next to Arthur. He lay on his back, not daring to touch him, to reach out for the comfort he knew he needed so badly but did not deserve. The bed was warm and full of Arthur’s presence and Lancelot bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut briefly – he’d hung up on him. He’d hung up on Arthur, on the phone, so he could satisfy his anger and annoyance and hatred for everything he’d had to do to get here.

What a worthless fool.

Arthur mumbled and turned over, toward him. Lance canted his eyes to the right, and watched Arthur for a moment, wanting to touch the stubbled cheek, the familiar lips and the crazy curls. Arthur’s mouth smiled in his sleep, a tiny, inconsequential thing, and Lance bit off the sound of fat, terrifying, crushingly awful hatred for himself and let his fingers graze Arthur’s arm.  

The green eyes he knew better than anything, loved better than anything in the world opened, and Arthur looked at him muzzily, sleep and dreams making his face seem soft.  Lance swallowed again and did not look away.

After a moment, Arthur’s hand fumbled for his, and Lancelot licked his dry lips, a few tears squeaking out, his shaking fingers gripping Arthur’s as tightly as he could.  
  
~


End file.
